Hairy's Short for Harriet
by Nikolai-Tesla
Summary: A follow-up to A Study In Fur, written for a dear friend of mine: 'I think Harriet is ill,' Sherlock said suddenly, abruptly. 'Scuse me,' John dropped the paper, mouth ajar. Sherlock waved his hand in annoyance. 'Not that Harriet. The other one.'


John Watson was very confused. Mind you, that state of mind was perfectly normal when one lived with Sherlock Holmes. But this was new. His flatmate was behaving quite strangely, even more so than usual.

Sherlock was lying on his stomach on the floor, his lanky body stretched out across the carpet. He was propped up on his elbows, looking pensive and tapping the heels of his hands together in thought.

'Sherlock, what are you doing?' John sighed, trying to appear disinterested in the whole affair.

'Thinking, obviously.'

'Yes, all right. Even I can see that. But what are you thinking about? And why are you lying on the floor? Is there some mystery under our sofa that needs solving?'

Sherlock continued to ignore John. John continued to pretend to read the newspaper.

'I think Harriet is ill,' Sherlock said suddenly, abruptly.

''Scuse me?' John dropped the paper, mouth slightly ajar.

'Harriet. I think she might be ill.' When John continued to stare blankly, Sherlock waved his hand in annoyance. 'Not _that _Harriet. The other one.'

'The other one? Sherlock, what are you-? How many nicotine patches are you using this time?'

'John, I am not intoxicated. And I am quite serious. _Harriet_.' He gestured under the sofa with one graceful hand.

'Oh. _Oh_. You named your cat Harriet.' John was entirely nonplussed.

'Yes, John. Harriet. But, if you like, you can call her 'Hairy.''

'Sherlock, you are not naming your pet after my sister.'

'No. No. Of course not. There's an 'i' in it.'

'Sherlock, that doesn't matter! It still _sounds_ the same.'

Sherlock rolled his eyes at John and languidly turned over to lie on his back, looking for all the world much like an overgrown cat himself. Somehow, even from his position on the carpet, Sherlock managed to make John feel foolish, and _he_ was sitting in a chair like a proper adult. 'Even if I _wanted_ to change her name, John, I couldn't. She's used to it now.' He narrowed his eyes. 'How would you feel if someone suddenly decided to call you Stephen?'

'Sherlock, you're being ridiculous,' John retorted, his normally ruddy face going slightly redder. 'She's a _cat_. Don't try to use cat psychology to get out of this one.'

Sherlock merely stared at John unblinkingly. It was rather unsettling and John began to feel like an idiot.

'Am I the crazy one here? You want your cat to be called 'Harriet Holmes.''

Sherlock's eyes widened as if just considering the possibility. Then he smiled. 'Yes, I suppose that would have to be her name.'

'No, Sherlock. Just... no. It's too weird. It sounds like you're married to my sister.'

'That's preposterous, John. I've never met your sister.'

John sighed, slamming his eyes shut and pursing his lips. 'Yes, Sherlock. _That's_ the main reason why you couldn't be married to Harry.' An image of a female Sherlock Holmes snogging his sister crept into his head and he gagged briefly, giving an involuntary shudder.

Sherlock cocked his head slightly, glancing inquisitively at John.

'It's nothing!' John managed to squeak hurriedly before clearing his throat.

'Good. Fine,' Sherlock said, sounding distracted as he flipped back onto his stomach.

'Sherlock, you look completely mental. _What_ are you doing down there?'

'I told you. I think Harriet is ill.' Sherlock reached out a tentative finger and prodded his kitten who was lying listlessly under the sofa.

'Maybe if you didn't keep so many hazardous chemicals around the flat...'

'No, John, remember? I stopped keeping anything toxic ever since you nearly drank my hydrofluoric acid.'

'It was in the fridge!' John retorted defensively. 'Next to the water! They're both _clear_, Sherlock!'

Sherlock smirked but his face fell as he returned his attention to his pet. 'John, you're a doctor. Come and look at her.'

'Yes, a _doctor_, not a veterinarian. If you cat is sick, there's not much _I_ can do. Take her to a proper clinic.'

'John, please,' Sherlock looked intensely at the other man before blinking several times. 'I'm... worried.' He said the word as if he had just realized that he was capable of such an emotion.

John sighed. 'All right. Fine.' He still sounded reluctant, but he moved from his seat in the armchair to kneel down next to Sherlock in front of the sofa.

John could see that the kitten was breathing normally. _That's good. There can't be anything _seriously_ wrong with her, then._

'Looks fine to me,' he said hurriedly, attempting to stand up and back away.

'You barely _looked_ at her, John. There could be any number of things that you couldn't see in that amount of time, much less observe.'

'Yes, okay,' John said snippily, sounding slightly petulant, even to his own ears. 'I'll look at your cat.' He looked awkward, unsure of what to do. When Sherlock offered no assistance, John reached out a hand towards the animal. 'Erm... come here, Pussycat.'

When the kitten didn't attack, or even resist, John slipped a hand under the soft, little body and withdrew her from under the couch.

Upon closer inspection, John saw nothing wrong with the animal. The kitten just stared up at him as he prodded and poked.

'What makes you think she's ill, Sherlock?'

'She's been lying under the sofa for days and she hasn't eaten any of her food.'

John snorted, giggling slightly. 'Sherlock, if I assumed _you _were ill every time you did that...'

'But that isn't normal behaviour for a cat,' Sherlock insisted.

'It's not normal behaviour for a human, either!'

Sherlock merely sat in silence, hands pressed together, watching intently as John concluded his examination.

'Well, Sherlock, I have a diagnosis. Your cat is suffering from acute boredom. Leave it to you to find a pet who behaves exactly like you.'

'Oh. Good. Boredom, not illness. Hmmm...' Sherlock trailed off, tapping one finger thoughtfully against his full lips.

John winced. 'No, Sherlock. Oh, no. Don't say what I think you're about to say.'

Sherlock ignored John and continued to stare into the distance. He spoke quietly, almost as if he were talking to himself. 'Of course. That has to be it. Yes. Harriet must be lonely. We need to get another cat.' He jumped to his feet and snatched his scarf from where it had been strewn haphazardly across an arm of the sofa. 'Get your coat, John.'

John was incredulous, open-mouthed. Then he snapped his jaw closed and shook his head vehemently. 'No. Nope. Absolutely not. We are _not_ getting another cat. One's bad enough! It's them or me, Sherlock!'

Sherlock strode quickly to the door before spinning on his heel to face John. His face broke out in a cocky grin and he winked infuriatingly. 'We'll see about that...'


End file.
